A Holmes
by arlottaness
Summary: "I'd always wondered what Sherlock's childhood was like. To better understand him... and out of wild curiosity. I learned all about it when E. walked into our lives. With her similarities to him and dissimilarities, I think it sent his newly-returned-from-the-grave brain into a tail spin. Not to mention "the Problem of the Pretty Pathologist." - from the blog of John Watson, MD.
1. Chapter 1 A Goodbye to a Grave

The snow crunches beneath her boots as she walks across the cemetery, stopping at a simple black marble headstone, with only a name etched on its surface. Sherlock Holmes. Her breath curls away from her lips like the cigarette smoke the dead man used to enjoy so much. She wondered if he had quit. She wondered a lot of things about this man, but at this moment she only wishes she had gotten the chance to meet the great detective before his untimely "suicide".

"You're a real prick you know, not saying goodbye." She snorted, mainly talking to the snow that piled around the toes of her combat boots.

"The papers say suicide. That you jumped off a hospital. Dramatic as always I see." She choked on the last words, tears stinging her eyes in the cold air.

"I don't believe it. You're not really in the ground under my feet, right? You're too much of an arrogant sod to off yourself." She was whispering, to convince herself, but the headstone at her feet seemed to stare back at her with cold hard resentment and contradiction to the sentiment she didn't really believe.

High in the tree above her, a small surveillance camera swiveled to take a full shot of her, as she tossed something onto the grave below.

"Goodbye for now brother." She mumbled as she strode away, the last of the salty drops falling forgotten onto the snow.

Another camera, in the tree opposite zooms in onto the object at the bottom of the headstone. Three flowers, bound up with braided newspaper, lay on the ground; a spiky rod of asphodel's, a hollyhock and a star of Bethlehem. A message for a dead man, or perhaps a dead man's brother?

* * *

Doctor John Watson sat in his arm chair staring out the second floor window of apartment 221b Baker Street. The rain tapped wearily against the glass as John thoughts played wearily through his head. He didn't hear the knock on the door until Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Sorry to bother love, but there's a young lady here to see you, says she was a friend of Sherlock if you can believe It." The motherly women shook her head with a sad smile.

The ex-army soldier stood up from the chair and looked towards the door. "Alright, well. Show her up, I guess."

The matronly women's steps echoed down the stairs, and John sat back down, turning the chair towards the door. He was only here to see to Sherlock's things, he hadn't been living here in months, and didn't like being here at all. Funny that a "friend" of Sherlock's would come today.

A soft knock heralded the entrance of that person, a young woman, in her late thirties, stepped inside the doorway.

"Mr. Watson? Hi, I'm Jane Doherty, an old friend of Sherlock's."

The small women looked wind beaten, and her stockings had several runs in them. She wore a brown suit jacket and skirt and had her mousy brown hair in a ponytail at her neck.

"Hello, yes call me John please, I um, I didn't know Sherlock had old friends, I mean, if you knew him, then, you must know."

"Yes I understand," She giggled through her nose, "He was difficult. I guess I'm not really a friend but he helped the police with...certain complications that involved me. I owe him a lot." Jane made move to sit down.

"Oh sorry, so rude, please sit. I'm only here to pick up some…mementos and then I'll be off, so is there something you needed?" John sighed.

"No, I'm sorry! I just wanted to offer my condolences. It's a great loss."

John nodded his thanks, and they sat in awkward silence for a time.

"So I suppose your donating his things or?" Jane said glancing about the room at the various boxes piled here and there.

"Yes, well, Sherlock's brother is taking care of all that. Wouldn't know what do to exactly, me." John sighed again, not very happy that his time to think had been interrupted.

"I guess you'll be keeping some things though, as you said to remember him and such."

"Yes, like I said."

"I wonder if it would be too much trouble to ask for a cuppa? I've been nearly drenched out there." The woman said too cheerfully. Obviously she wanted to sit and reminisce, which John definitely did not want to do, but he didn't have the energy to say no, so he nodded and excused himself, saying he would get it from Mrs. Hudson.

As soon as his footfalls silenced, the brown little woman flew into action, putting on rubber gloves and quickly inspecting the nearly empty apartment, even opening and resealing some of the boxes. After a time she heard a door close on the landing below. Grabbing the clunky heels she had taken off she ran silently into the back bedroom, out of the window and disappeared down the fire escape.

John walked into his former living room and stared at the empty seats. Shocked, he put down both mugs of tea and started towards the back room, but stopped when he noticed a scrap of newspaper folded neatly and lying in the middle of the room. He bent to pick it up, and stared at the article. **Sherlock Holmes a Fraud**, blared out from the headline. John fought the urge to shred the paper as he studied the clipping. At the bottom of the page, in neat print handwriting, was a note. John Watson felt the tiny blink of hope at the back of his mind grow as he read: _"Thank you for believing in him, and being his friend. I think we'll show those doubters a thing or two yet. I have hope, how about you? – A friend of you both."_

* * *

**This is a tentative story that I'm having enormous fun thinking up, the hard part is getting down a plot, Ive got all these adorable little snapshots in my head, i just got to get them together! Ive not said her name yet, but I'm sure you can guess who the girl is.**

**This is the first thing Ive posted here ever! wow! please please please review? And tell me if you think i should continue posting with the story! Thankoo!**


	2. Chapter 2 A Hello to a Dead Man

John sat staring at the screen of his laptop, mentally begging it to crash or run out of battery. The title of his blog stared back at him from its place on the webpage. His therapist had been urging him to continue with this blog, to start one afresh, or even to write in a journal. She didn't seem to care as long as he was taking an active interest in what he was doing, his day to day life.

His day to day life… it was normal, average, and mundane. Hell, it bored him to tears, but it was a life, and he was living it. He had even taken a job where he thought he might become a partner in the practice. A small private office with two pediatricians, and a gynecologist, all of whom seemed eager to add a general practitioner to the roster. He had been working there as an assistant, far below his pay grade, for almost a year now. A year and a half since his life was interrupted in a big way for the second time. The first when he found himself alone in London, in need of a flat and a job, the second when his best friend had taken a swan dive off the roof of a hospital taking Johns flat and job with him.

Of course Sherlock's death had ripped John's daily life apart. He'd felt incredibly disconnected for months after. Grief wasn't even the main cause really, it seemed that Sherlock had rubbed off on him and John was lost and _bored_.

So what good was staring at the screen going to do if nothing ever happened to him? He closed the laptop, shrugged on his jacket and stepped out into the cool march air.

* * *

His head was wrapped in the fog of his thoughts, as his feet trudged through the fog that hovered along the sidewalk. A buzzing in his side pocket distracted him. He expected it to be his date from the previous evening, but no. The text read;

Black car parked fourth from corner. Get in.

MH

John shifted from leg to leg. He thought he might hyperventilate out of sheer frustration and pent up emotion. He quickly weighed his options. Keep on walking and pray the car wouldn't follow, run into the nearest shop and escape out the back? A little voice in the back of his brain yelled "BORED"! And John's feet shot out off of the curb.

The gleaming car's windows were tinted and John didn't even take a moment to wonder who was inside as he got in. No sooner had he slammed the door shut then the car fed into the stream of traffic and shot down a side street.

"Hello then." John turned, pointedly seeking eye contact with the woman who sat next to him. She gave him none but merely nodded at him before turning back to the blackberry in her hand.

"That's it; if you're not… look I need an explanation. I don't hear anything from Mycroft for over a year, and all of a sudden he decides to kidnap me…on my day off." John started out growling, but changed his tone at a withering look from Anthea.

"My apologies." She hummed in her preoccupied tone.

"Yeah I bet." John snorted and decided to start bottling up his anger, and save it for a nice little "chat" with his dead-best-friends brother.

* * *

The large carved oak doors that lead to Mr. Mycroft Holmes' office swung noiselessly and John stepped into the bookcase lined office of the elder Holmes siblings.

The man himself sat behind his desk, elbows perched on a small littering of papers, hands poised fingertip to fingertip.

John exhaled sharply and clenched and unclenched his fists and he approached the desk. Mycroft appeared lost in thought, staring into the space above the floor, but he spoke suddenly his eyes blinking and then rotating to look to Johns face.

"Doctor Watson, a pleasure. Please have a seat," He motioned with one long hand towards the guest's seat next to John, "And before you start berating me for what I believe you referred to as kidnap, let me assure you, you are not here by my will. I've taken great pains, Doctor, in ensuring your safety this past year or so. But family compels one so, does it not?"

John had made no move to sit, and now stood stiff.

"Yes, well, I suppose I should leave you to it then. Here is a list of information that may or may not explain some things to you," He handed John a folder, "and now I must inform you that my brother is not dead. I'm sure – yes, do sit – I'm sure it is a huge shock. He will tell you of the necessity of keeping you in the dark, though much must be left to your imagination. You would need a much higher security clearance."

John's knees had buckled out from underneath him and he sat down hard on the chair. "This is a sick joke. It must…I saw him…head…skull was cracked, he – he was bleeding out on the sidewalk." His breath came quickly as he glared up at Mycroft.

Mycroft gave him a patronizing smile. "You'll have to ask him about the particulars, I myself have been kept somewhat in the dark about it all." He began to cross the room to exit where john had come in.

"Wait. What…um, where is Sherlock?"

"He should be here within a half an hour, though, he is on a case. It may delay him; regardless that he is on it on my behalf. I should think he will be here promptly." He said with a sarcastic shake of his head and left the room.

John sat shocked for several minutes. He then remembered the file folder he held in his lap and roughly started flicking through it. Names and dates screamed out at him: the first encounter with James Moriarty, and the day Sherlock's death, no, faked suicide among the bold type. Several long distance pictures of himself, as well as five or six people he didn't recognize, were clipped to sheets of paper with an MI6 watermark. He skimmed through the cut and dry language of the pages and learned, in short, that for weeks after Sherlock's "death" he had been constantly followed by armed assassins of one sort or another, and that, until a few months ago; his life had been in constant danger. Obviously, thought john, Moriarty had suspected Sherlock would try something, even from beyond the grave. There were a good number of paragraphs and separate words censored with black. It made John wonder once more just what exactly Mycroft Holmes did for the government.

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair, trying to sort out just what he was feeling at the moment, when he heard the click of a lock, and a concealed door opened from the corner behind the desk. He glanced up, and then stood up.

"You-."

"Hello John." Uttered the deep smooth voice of Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3 Come Along, Watson

A moment passed as John stared at Sherlock. The man hadn't changed at all, he still stood tall, pale and ramrod straight, in dress shirt and suit. Only his hair betrayed that fact that almost two years had passed, it was cut short around his ears and neck, and fell in a few dark curls over his forehead.

He looked bloody amazing for a "dead" man who was hiding from a worldwide ring of criminals, and it gave John the urge to punch him in his sodding nose.

"You bastard!" he shouted striding around the desk and stopping just short of Sherlock.

"Yes, that's a bet lost to Mycroft," Sherlock droned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "We made a few estimations to what your first words to me would be; I was hoping for something bit less- oof"

John had delivered clean right uppercut to the left of Sherlock jaw.

"I was going bloody mental Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson… Mrs. Hudson is heartbroken! Molly from the morgue has never returned my calls; Lestrade's told me he feels as if he put you in the fucking grave himself." John shouted at a sullen Sherlock.

"John-"

"I'm your best friend you prick! You could have… I'm not some halfwit, I can bleeding protect myself… Goddamnit I've killed for you!"

"John-"

"You couldn't tell me, sure, or I'd be dead, or maybe I'd tell the papers huh Sherlock?"

"OH MY GOD! Shut up John, I'm sorry." Sherlock glared, hand against his jaw bone.

They stood that way for several long seconds, until John took an angry step forward and grabbed Sherlock in a crushing hug. Sherlock grunted as the air was pushed from his lungs. His eyebrows had shot up and his mouth slowly twitched into a half smile.

"So I suppose this is sentiment in all its glory." Sherlock snorted when John stepped back.

"God, I may be mad as all hell but…" John shook his head his hands in fists at his side. "I'm even more glad to have you back. Its bloody brilliant."

Sherlock chuckled. "Missed me then?"

"I suspected you know." John smiled, sarcastically. His face fell, "I could never stop believing you were brilliant enough to pull something like that off. After… all the things, you know. All the cases…I had hope. No matter that you'd jump off 'o Bart's."

Sherlock had been looking John up and down as he talked, and as he strode around the desk in a very Sherlock-way he smiled as he said, "You look awful. You had a date last night but haven't bothered to call her first, though you liked her enough to shave and get a haircut, though not enough to buy cologne. I see the state of your love life has not improved in my absence."

"Course, yes… cologne… now hold on one minute… hey!" John had been startled at the sudden deductions he hadn't realized he'd missed, as Sherlock used both arms to open the great oak doors, and stride through in his characteristic manner. The manner of a man on a mission, John thought, as he jogged to catch up with him before the doors swung shut.

"A beauty in distress, possible long lost treasure, connections to the army…sound like your cup of tea John?" Sherlock's over-dramatic tone echoed through the hallway as John followed him through the large building.

"What are you on about Sherlock?" he huffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets, an air of excitement was already starting to build.

"A case John! Has your brain been in hibernation while I was dead?"

"Well, it's not every day one has friends come back from the grave; you could cut my normal brain some slack!"

"I take your in then? Good. I'll get Mycroft to send your things round then. We have an appointment with our client at 4. Don't be late." Sherlock step out of the building onto the great stone steps, pulling out his phone and attacking the gadget with his fingers.

John felt a buzz in his pocket and he pulled out his phone to read;

It could be dangerous, John

SH

John glanced up to see Sherlock hailing a cab. "No! No, no. Sherlock come on. You burst back into my life without so much as a by-your-leave, and you expect me to… hang on, bring my stuff where?"

"Our flat john. Please don't tell me you're going to insist on staying at that sorry excuse for housing."

John stared at the tall detective with a look of disbelief. He rocked back onto his heels for a moment before grunting. Nodding, he said, "Fine, fine, I'm just gonna go with it then. I'm gonna wake up tomorrow and this'll all be a dream. Or, you know what, no, this can't be a dream, cause in a dream I'd make it so you take a bloody second to explain how you faked your own death on short notice, where you've been, and how the hell you have Baker Street back?"

Sherlock looked blankly at John.

"And aren't you going to be recognized, I mean people aren't that thick."

"Yes they are." Sherlock snorted, sliding into the seat of the waiting cab, as John hurriedly followed.

"Dammit Sherlock, if you don't-"

"Oh alright! I've been working for Mycroft half the time, the other half I spent in Molly Hooper's flat, I can't tell you how I faked my death, you'd have to ask her, I am sworn to secrecy, and I never lost Baker Street in the first place. People aren't going to recognize me because my face hasn't been in the papers in over a year and the public IS that stupid. People are idiots; you should have realized this by now." Sherlock spoke with blinding speed whenever he would rather not explain things, such as now, and he made small inclinations of his head to hit on certain words.

"Molly Hooper's flat?" John cocked his head.

"Oh you would pick up on that out of everything, YES Molly's flat. Is that so hard to believe?" Sherlock was tapping away on his phone but glanced over to John in time to see him chocking back a laugh.

"What?" he monotoned.

"Yes its impossible to believe! Molly Hoop – wait, oh Sherlock, no, you didn't drag her into this did you?"

"What!?" Sherlocks voice intoned an octive higher.

"This whole snipers-in-the-park nightmare scenario, where your supposed to be dead to save my life?" John gestured out the window with his hands.

"Not just yours." Sherlock said lowly.

"eh? Who else?"

"Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." Sherlock glanced at his companion to judge his reaction.

"Bloody hell." Was all he said.

"Yes, Moriarty targeted the people he thought I was closest to, my "friends"." Sherlock kept his eyes on his phone as he said this.

"But not Molly then. Hhm."

"No not Molly. And I didn't drag her into this, she willingly helped me… she saved me really-now come on what's that face for?!" Sherlock glared at John.

John was suppressing laughter again. "Oh its just so ridiculous! She's not targeted because you're a total prick to her, and obviously not her friend, and she ends up being the one who goes and gets you out of the jam."

"She's a friend, if you consider what I have as friends." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Let's call us that, sure. We few, we honored few!" John shook his head.

"She was eager to help…" Sherlock groaned as he looked back to his mobile.

"Course she was, she's in love with you, you sod." John grumbled inaudibly.

"What?"

"Nothing, I said… you owe me a take away…you sod." John shrugged, smirking.

The only reply he got was a low "hum" from the great detective, and John couldn't remember when he had last felt so at ease.

* * *

** Well this has been so fun so far! **

**The most important thing to me is that the characters not go OOC. So please give me pointers if you sense it straying.**

**And sorry the chapters are so short, it doesn't seem that way when I'm writing it out!**


	4. Chapter 4 Flower Girl

When the cab pulled up to the curb in front of Speedy's café Sherlock jumped out athletically and John followed. Pocketing his phone Sherlock then turned to John with a pensive look in his keen eyes.

"I don't want to frighten her, John. But she's seen all my things being replaced over the week, she should know." Sherlock looked sincerely at a loss, as at a loss as Sherlock could be.

"She's probably completely confused… did Mycroft do that? Move all your things in? He probably didn't even stop to lie to her!" John said scoffing, making a move to ring.

"Best course of action is to say hello, and break the news before she sees me. Text me when you've done it." Sherlock nodded, before taking off down the street and around the corner.

"Sherlock - bugger it." John sighed, pressing the buzzer.

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson answered the door and saw John there she gave him a sweet sad smile that could warm the heart of Sherlock himself and, through the years, had.

"John dear, what a nice surprise! Come in, come in, can I get you a cuppa, are you staying long?"

"No, I, um I've got a bit of news, maybe we should sit down…" John hoped she would react well to this news or at least believe him. She had taken Sherlock's passing so well, mourning so naturally, like Sherlock had been her son, no strings attached. She was moving on like a normal person would, not like John who'd felt his world tremor.

"Alright then, right this way. You know, it's the strangest thing, what's been going on in this house the past week, you would not believe! I've got a new tenant in your old rooms, felt awful doing it but it can't be helped, the rent you know, and well, all the boxes going up and movers trampin' around, and noise, banging about upstairs you'd think it was Sherlock having one his rows with the wall." She shook her head as she led John into her sitting room and sat gracefully down in her favorite high-backed chair.

John took a deep breath; a bit shocked that Sherlock had come up so soon, he had meant to ease into it.

"Well it's about Sherlock that I'm here, really." John started, but was cut off.

"Oh bless! You know I almost forgot! I was going to ring you about that woman who disappeared out of the apartment last November, she's been back, she apologized and gave me this…" Mrs. Hudson reached over to her coffee table and handed John a small framed watercolor of a vase of flowers.

"Huh." He inspected the strange painting while Mrs. Hudson explained.

"She said she didn't mean to pop off all of a sudden like she did, but she remembered somewhere she had to be. Mind you, there was something very funny about her, though I'm not one to judge a body. Perhaps it was that she'd had a bit of work done, about the nose. Shame really, young thing like that, couldn't be more than twenty."

John put the painting down, making a mental note to mention this all to Sherlock, might be important. There was something off about the painting, not that John could put his finger on it. "Mm, she didn't look younger than thirty to me… oh, um Mrs. Hudson, I'm just going to come right out and say it… well, I've just seen Sherlock."

"Oh dear." Mrs. Hudson paused for a moment, touching her fingers to her lips. "Now have you spoken to anyone about this, have you been seeing him a lot?"

"What do you... mean... I, no." John chuckled, "No, Mrs. Hudson, he really is alive, this isn't a symptom of my ptsd. I'm well over that." Lying for Mrs. Hudson's sake was easy, when news this big had to be broken.

" He… Mycroft brought me to him and he's outside right now. I can… call him in, if you want." John searched her face for signs of disbelief, but saw her eyes narrow, and was surprised when she stood and snapped, "John Watson. I'm surprised at you, teasing an old lady like this, it's not right really… I… Oh my."

John had pulled out his phone and texted Sherlock as Mrs. Hudson had stood, and they could both hear the sound of a key in the outer hallway door. When the knock came on her door Mrs. Hudson was grasping the back of her chair, one hand over her mouth. She seemed so eager to believe, yet so angry and scared that it would be a joke, a horrible painful joke. John gave her his most reassuring smile and stood to get the door.

When the man himself was standing in front of her, Mrs. Hudson gasped a tiny little sob and ran to wrap Sherlock in her arms. "Oh you… horrible, horrible man! How, how could you let me think you were dead, oh Sherlock."

John had turned away into the kitchen to give them a moment, smiling to himself. But if he had peeked around the corner he would have been witness to one of the rare moments of caring that Sherlock let himself show. Wrapped in his long arms, Mrs. Hudson cried into his chest, and Sherlock Holmes let himself close his eyes and smile.

* * *

When John stepped into his old rooms he was shocked at the state of things; the wall that Sherlock had assaulted had been newly wallpapered, their old chairs where back in their rightful places, and all their books where lined neatly in the bookshelves. The usual higgledy-piggledy of papers and random scientific paraphernalia was nowhere to be seen, though Sherlock's macabre "friend" still grinned from atop the mantelpiece.

"Disgusting isn't it. My brothers doing." Sherlock said, nodding to the overall cleanliness.

"S'not too bad. Could be nice. To keep it straight. Maybe." John sighed half-heartedly.

Sherlock flopped down onto the couch with a loud groan.

"This is easy for you isn't it? Just coming back. Just, everything's…fine?" John stood awkwardly in between the living room and kitchen, over taken with the sense of home-coming.

"Of course." Sherlock stretched, having kicked his shoes off into the middle of the room.

"Good. Right." John sat down in what he thought of as his chair, suddenly very tired, like he had been awake ever since Sherlock left, and only now realized.

"It _is_ good to be back, John." He heard Sherlock mumble as his breathing evened out into deep long breaths. "Yeah" he replied.

* * *

When John opened his eyes and glanced over to the couch, Sherlock was gone. Moving to sit up he suddenly froze. Sitting in Sherlock's chair, legs crossed eyes sparkling, sat a teenaged girl.

John stared into the blue/green eye's that peered at him with a familiar kind of manic glee, boring twin holes through him. She half smiled as she blinked for the first time in minutes, while pushing a heavy wave of dark brown hair off her forehead, her long thin finger thrumming gracefully on the chair's arm.

"Who are you?"

"Can't tell you, but I know your John Watson."

"What are you doing in here, did… did Mrs. Hudson let you up?" John vaguely remembered Sherlock mentioning they had a client coming at four, though when he looked at his watch it said 2:30.

"Sherlock went out for a bit, probably to see to your things, though he could be wrapping up that case for Mycroft, if he's feeling generous." She chuckled.

John had gotten to his feet, and now stood behind his chair watching her. "If you're not here for Sherlock… what do you want." He wondered how she knew who Mycroft was, after all, the Holmes brothers liked to keep as low a profile as they could manage, especially in the recent circumstances.

"I didn't say I wasn't here for Sherlock. Though he doesn't know I'm here. I just heard he was back and wanted to verify that for myself. I worry about him."

John felt a strong sense of déjà vu. "How did you… listen-"

"Doctor Watson, I'm not an enemy of Sherlock's," her face fell, "or yours, but I'm sort 'a flattered you think I might be. Look, it was me that came to see you in November, Jane Doherty? I left you that newspaper clipping quoting that moronic Sergeant Donovan? It was also me who gave Mrs. Hudson that painting; she's really a great old gal."

"The hell did you do all that for?" John narrowed his eyes at her.

"To try and get you digging. I didn't believe that Sherlock killed himself; he just wouldn't do that, not for anybody. Do… do you think you could tell him I said hi? And tell him, not to tell Mycroft?" she looked down at her boots.

"I'll tell him what you said. You… that was dangerous, would've been dangerous. Digging I mean. Could have got me killed. Other people too maybe.

"What do you mean?" she narrowed her eyes and cocked her head slightly.

"Um, you should ask Sherlock if your all that worried."

"I can't really." She frowned.

"Why?"

"Cause Mycroft would find out!" she stamped her foot suddenly.

"How old are you?" John half smirked.

"Twenty-five." She raised her chin.

John smiled. Something about her still seemed out of place, and she definitely wasn't twenty five. Her long curly hair fell over her shoulders and he could see her ears were pierced in several places. She wore a dark green duffle coat, and he could see a grey Dropkick Murphy's tee shirt underneath it. "Sure." He said.

"I know it was Mycroft who told Moriarty all he needed to frame Sherlock, and that there was no Richard Brooks like the papers said. I just wanted his best friend to know he wasn't a fraud." Her hands were balled into fists on her knees and she spat the name Richard Brooks.

"What-" John was shocked, even in the file Mycroft had given him to read it hadn't mentioned the fact that it was Mycroft who had talked to Moriarty.

"I gotta go," she stood, and was a couple inches taller than John. "Ta John."

She slipped out the door quietly. She doesn't know the man she's messing with, thought John. Truth was, once, she knew him better than anyone.

* * *

**Thanks for the lovely reviews everyone! And all the follows and one favorite! That's so great!**

**Enola Holmes belongs to her creator, Nancy Springer. I will try to stay true to her character, though I think in this century she would probably be much different. I'm taking my cue's from the brilliantly twisted minds of Moffat and Gatiss and not just bringing this forward, bit spinning it too! **

**Love it? Hate it? Review and let me know! **

**Oh, and the gorgeous Image used for this story is by the lovely Szikee! Find her on Deviantart  
**

** ?q=sherlock+and+enola#/d4tj3br**


	5. Chapter 5 Good Golly Miss Molly

_"Bring him this way"_

_"Doctor…can you..."_

_"Did you see him jump?"_

_"Blimey yeah, I did…"_

_"All that blood."_

_"No pulse, Doctor,"_

_"Doctor Reilly can you use…"_

Voices rang out in the E.R. hallway of St. Bart's Hospital, London. Nurses and M.D.'s swarmed around the gurney carrying a full body bag. Molly made her way slowly through the crowd, getting more frantic by the minute, she was scared she wouldn't reach him before someone took a pulse in the wrong place or something worse.

"S'cuse me, excuse me! Sorry… move! Sean, let me look at him." The tall ginger doctor who had just pulled the zip up the black plastic on the stretcher turned to the soft voice at his elbow and frowned.

"Molly darlin', you don't want ta see 'im." Doctor Reilly put his hands on her shoulders and two nurses began pushing the gurney further down the hall.

If she delayed another second she would scream, she could feel it. "Sean I've got to… he, he wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do his a-autopsy let me take him down. Please Sean."

The tall doctor sighed and, letting her go, "Alright every one. Clear out now, nothing ta see 'ere!" His loud voice drove the loitering staff back to their duties and Molly managed to scoot down the hallway to intercept Sherlock's body.

"Thompson, your wanted in ICU. Tyler, um, I'll take it from here… thanks." Molly tried her hardest to sound authoritative, though she felt like the world was spinning in slow motion and her limbs were tied under water.

"You sure, Dr. Hooper? He's a heavy'un."

"YES! I've got him! Now… yes please I'm fine, s'cuse me, sorry." Molly heaved a sigh as she finally took hold of the gurney and wheeled it to the elevator at the end of the hall. Pressing the call button she looked around to make sure everyone had gotten the message to butt out.

She grabbed the zip and undid about three inches so he could breath, just as the elevator arrived. She might have cried with relief, if she didn't know the man on the stretcher could hear her, because the elevator was beautifully empty, and always went straight to the morgue when the button was pressed. Having then done just that, she slumped into the corner, head in her hands. They'd done it. He was safe for now. Hallelujah.

* * *

"Ca- uh cause of death?" The detective's voice cracked before he had even begun the sentence, as he stood several feet away.

"Looks like blunt-force trauma to the skull and rib cage. He took most of the impact on his legs, it seems. I haven't open- uh I still have to do the official autopsy." She spoke quietly, also looking at the apparently dead, bloody and smashed body lying on her table. She glanced at Greg Lestrade.

The look on his face would have been unreadable to those who didn't know him, but Molly had been working with him for years now. She was also very practiced at recognizing anguish in a person's eyes, her job was forensic pathology after all. She helped dissect people's dead relatives, she saw this kind of horror all the time, but that didn't mean it didn't make her heart spasm each time she saw it.

This time was different though. There was unmistakable guilt in the inspector's eyes.

"If you want… I could give you some time…" Molly didn't want to, but she felt like she should offer it, she was struggling to act normally. It was very hard to pretend Sherlock was dead and she would soon have to cut into him with a scalpel. It helped that he looked very convincing and the surrounding circumstance were enough to make Molly's eyes well up.

"No! I, um I need to get back to the department, write a full report and such. Thank you. Doc…er, Molly. This must be hard for you." He nodded and turned to leave, too caught up in his cloud of confusion to wait for Molly to reply. Molly didn't care though, she had to work hard and fast now, she had no idea who was going to walk in next and she had to falsify a ton of paper work.

As soon as she heard the doors swing shut she sprinted over and locked them, begging heaven to be kind and not let anyone peer in while she worked. When all entrances were secure she started to rummage frantically about at her work station flipping through patient files and papers.

"Molly…" he said he said her name strangely. Usually it was in a low warning tone, and Molly thought it sometimes sounded like he was talking to a disobedient dog, but now it was breathy, not quite a whisper, bordering on what one might call fear.

"Yeah, um, I'm right here Sherlock… um how, how are you?" Molly froze.

Sherlock sat up, looking like a horror movie, and swung his legs over the side of the table. His lifted his hands to his head.

"Here, let me." Molly walked over quickly and gently moved his hands out of the way. She reached beneath the table and brought out the tray she had prepared. Biting her lip she began to wipe away the blood that trickled down the side of his head and neck, and created a scarlet finger-trail across his face.

She glanced up every now and then to see him staring at the wall behind her, face passive, almost too still to be human. Anyone else and she would have advised them that they were in shock, but she didn't even think twice about that with Sherlock. When she'd got all the blood off of his neck and face, cursing herself for blushing despite the hideous circumstances, she handed him another clean damp rag and stepped around the table carefully.

Starting once more to shuffle through papers, she could hear the rustle of fabric as Sherlock draped his coat over the opposite table. Sitting down Molly looked at her hands. The adrenaline of the past few minutes had begun to wear off and Molly felt mostly numb now, even if a voice in her head was yelling at her to scurry.

Sherlock's strange, slow and somber aura had seemed to transfer itself to Molly. She glanced up. Sherlock was using the pane of glass in one of the observation windows as a mirror to remove the rest of the blood from his neck and shoulders.

Normally Molly would have flushed crimson at the sight of Sherlock's bare back, muscles rippling on his too- thin frame, but the tension in his shoulders and the reflection of his face in the glass made her want to cry.

"Thank you for this Molly." He said, his blank eyes meeting hers through the reflection.

"Anytime." She gave him a week smile. Really, she thought, anytime, anywhere, anything for you.

* * *

**Ooh! Flashback! Aw, Molly really is such a joy to write, I just imagine how I'd act in front of Benedict C. and then add grammar. She is one of my favorite characters. She's got such a big heart, and so much patience, the soft kind of bravery that is so underrated in television.**

**I hope I didn't give to much of my reichen-fall theory away, I kind of added some others to this as well. I didn't want to come right out and say how it was done, since flippin Moffat say's we all got it wrong any way! Still Sherlock had his eyes opened the whole time and saw everyone around him reacting, that must've been hard. Whatever happened I imagine he would be a little out of it and foggy when he got to the morgue.  
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**Hope you like it so far! Thank you for all the lovely reviews on my very first fic!  
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**From now on this story will be updated with longer chapters every Tuesday.  
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**TA!  
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	6. Chapter 6 Roses are Red, Mary likes Blue

**Hullo everyone, sorry for the slight delay, my laptop screen cracked and bled while I was away on holiday, so it had to be sent away for repairs. Its been back a few days, but I've been busy. Geez, life is annoying sometimes eh? So here's a short chapter, to say sorry for the delay, a longer one will be coming later this week, then a good big one each Tuesday. Ta!**

* * *

John didn't talk to him about what happened, about the few moments before Sherlock jumped. The way his voice cracked, and the pain inflected in each word, what went through his head in those moments, or the way he felt afterwards.

Sherlock almost, no, he did, he cried. His body betrayed him again and his emotions bubbled to the surface. There hadn't seemed to be any puzzle left to solve, no ointment for any fly to infect, no microscopic image to corrupt with a stray hair on the lens; nothing but two best friends, a simple equation even in Sherlock's eyes, his emotions had nothing to betray him to.

What went through his head that day, and many weeks after, John wasn't even sure he could put into words. Not that he'd ever vocalize them anyway even if he could form the thought. What with Sherlock's aversion to sentiment, his view of caring as a weakness, it wouldn't really accomplish anything. Accept maybe to calm Johns roiling mind. His instinct was to spend days switching between yelling and screaming, and basking in the relief of his un-dead friend being there.

Sherlock must be sweeping it under the carpet, perhaps slightly embarrassed at his display over the phone that day, if it wasn't acting. Though John strongly doubted it was. They were moving swiftly on to normalcy, as if nothing had happened.

'This is easy for you, isn't it?' he had asked. And strangely, although it was weird, it was easy for John too. He got to revert back to the life he had been mourning and craving for a year and a half, with barely any consequences. Well, not quite.

As John sat in deep thought in his armchair, he couldn't help but imagine the public reaction to Sherlock's resurrection, surely there would be press. There would have to be an official statement and what about the law? Surely Sherlock wasn't off the hook completely? Although, with Mycroft for a brother, he wouldn't be totally surprised.

Give the tabloids a good story, drop a few names, make it official and all might be well. Sherlock was right to some extent, the multitudes are thick. They'll accept it eventually, not ever wondering what they're missing, which might as well be called… everything.

* * *

It was three thirty when Sherlock finally walked through the door of Baker Street, all fire and wind, his polished shoes padding swiftly up the stairs.

"God that was dull." He groaned in his fashion as he took off his scarf and coat. He wasn't wearing his signature dark, collared long coat, but a shorter, grey one, with a black scarf.

"What was?" John called from the kitchen where he was making coffee.

"I just slipped into Bart's to wrap up that case for Mycroft, might as well be done with that business as soon as humanly possible."

"Slipped into… Sherlock is that, I mean is that a good idea?"

Sherlock pulled a wad of papers from his jacket pocket and threw them onto the coffee table. "Sure, why not?"

"Well, I just mean that was where you were "autopsied" not so long ago." John said quizzically, moving to stand in the archway.

"Don't be comical, John. Molly was the only person I encountered there. And she did the "autopsy." Lifting his violin out of its case, Sherlock spoke while shaking his head.

"Well, good…then. Oh, there was someone to see you while you were out."

"Oh really…who?" Sherlock spoke with a mild look of surprise, as he ran his bow over the strings carelessly, warming up.

"Some girl. She's been here three times actually, if you believe what she says. In _disguise_ the first couple times. Which seems a bit dodgy, but-"

"Disguise?" Sherlock's bow stilled, his back turned to John.

"Mm, and she said to tell you she was here, and not to tell Mycroft. She said she knew it was him that told Moriarty what he needed to give that story to that journalist."

Sherlock had turned around slowly, expressionless. "And?" he gestured to John.

"And she gave Mrs. Hudson a painting, funny thing that, I can't tell what's strange about it. It's just some flowers, but it's off-"

"What?" Sherlock eyebrows knit together.

"Flowers, she gave Mrs. Hudson a painting of… what is it?" John was cut off as Sherlock flew from the room, violin dropped into his chair.

John leaped after him, into Mrs. Hudson level of the building, where there was no sign of the lady herself.

"Hm, she must be in the shop, Sherlock? What is it, what's wrong?"

Sherlock had found the painting, lying on her kitchen table and was now removing it carefully from its frame. "There are seven kinds of flowers in this painting John and each tells a story. Ever heard of the language of flowers? Don't worry, few straight men born in the seventies recall its popularity at that time. Now just… to… get the back here…ah. Look."

Sherlock had pried the stiff canvas out of its frame and now held it up so John could see the scrawling note written on the back.

Dear Sherlock, I hope this finds you well, or at least not dead. Who then would explain this message to Mrs. Hudson? E. H.

"Who's EH? That girl?"

"Obviously." Sherlock's eyes widened to emphasize his incredulity and he studied the right side of the small watercolour.

"Who is she then?" John looked at the picture with renewed interest.

"Like I was saying, the Language of Flowers gives every species and color of flower one or more meanings, like red roses for love and lilies for death, etcetera. This is a message."

"Can you figure it out? Or shall I grab my laptop?" John grinned.

Sherlock glanced at him then sighed. "This is a campanula, common name bellflower, it means gratitude…" Sherlock's long fingers slid over the painting, pointing at the blossoms. "This is _Dianthus caryophyllus, _a pink carnation, symbolizing a woman or a mothers love, the gladiolus here means "good character" and honor, _Datura stramonium,_ or Jimsom weed or thorn apple expresses a disguise, the sweet pea means "you have my thanks", Mullein expresses good natured, _Convallaria majalis_ denotes sweetness and _returning_ happiness," Sherlock paused in his ramble to glance his shining eye's at John before continuing. "And ivy, meaning dependence or endurance."

"So, basically-"

"Basically it's saying "thanks ever so much", to a motherly woman, who is sweet and good natured and will have returning happiness, which will _endure_ apparently."

"A thank you note to Mrs. Hudson then? That's… sweet. And strange." John shrugged. "Well… _you_ sure paid attention in the seventies."

Sherlock half-grinned and chuckled, "Of course, I wasn't completely useless at four." He replaced the picture in its frame and put it back on the kitchen table.

"So this girl?"

For a minute Sherlock stared into the space beneath his hands, eyes narrowed, jaw tilted.

"Sherlock?"

"She's nothing to worry about."

"You sure that's all? You don't think she'll be trouble?"

"Trouble? Annoying maybe, but hardly a hindrance. Come on, our client will be here in less than twenty. Thank god. I'm starving for a case."

John followed the detective back into their rooms. "Hang on, but you said you've just wrapped one up."

"Oh that? Disgraceful excuse for a case, hardly a three. Just like the one before it and the ten before that. I'm itching for a chase, for a real problem. Another triple murder would be nice." He scooped up his violin and sat down in his leather chair, stretching his black-clad legs out in front of him.

"You know normal people don't pray for slaughter and mayhem Sherlock." John picked up his previously forgotten coffee as he laughed.

Sherlock's fingers plucked the violin strings in a rapid pattern. "Normal people are BORING John. We're not normal people. How tedious would that be?"

It didn't escape Johns notice that Sherlock said "we" instead of "I", thinking that it was only his friendship with Sherlock that made him "not normal", and that he didn't _really_ answer his queries about E.H.

* * *

"Yoo hoo! Boys, you've got a visitor! Right in here love, oh you don't know what a joy it is to have my boys back! What'd you say your name was?" Mrs. Hudson ushered a young woman into the living room.

"Mary Morstan." She smiled, her plain appearance brightening tenfold.

"Mary, nice to meet you dear. Now you be polite to her Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson pointed her finger at the man lounging in the armchair, as he took in Mary's appearance.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson you can go now." He said, plucking a B note on the violins strings.

With a tut Mrs. Hudson turned and left, leaving John to offer a seat to Mary.

She was short, shorter than John or Mrs. Hudson, but her legs were long in her dainty high heels. Big baby blues looked sincerely about the room from under heavy lashes, and tawny blond hair ended in waves about her neck.

As John looked her over he saw a sweet face, a preference for the color blue and a perfect pair of lovely… earrings.

As Sherlock glanced at her he saw an avid reader, someone who kept a bird, lived with another woman and liked cinnamon on her toast.

"Miss Morstan, it is miss isn't it?" he said lowly.

"Mm, yes it is." She nodded as John offered her his seat.

"John will be pleased." Sherlock's hidden smile, the one you could spot when he was being smug, appeared on his right cheek.

"Beg pardon?" Mary's eyes grew wider as she glanced at John.

"He just means… ah" John paused with his mouth in an "O" hoping the proper words would spring out of their own accord.

"Your... glad I'm single? Mr…?" Mary blushed and fiddled with the buttons on her cardigan.

"Watson. John Watson. MD. I um, I mean I don't really, uh you know…Sherlock just likes to be bit of a nuisance with new clients." John nodded to Sherlock who wiped the smugness off his face with a tilt of his head.

Mary laughed, "Well, Watson, John Watson, MD. If you're single, I'm glad too, because that's partly why I'm here, to employ a bit of male company."

John grinned, glancing at Sherlock with his own smug-face.

"I work at St. Bart's hospital as I'm sure you know Mr. Holmes, I take care of special needs children in for treatment. We have a mutual friend Doctor Watson, Molly Hooper who works in Pathology?"

"Call me John." John smiled.

"If you'll call me Mary." She replied, blushing again.

"Deal."

* * *

**Ladies and Gentlemen, _review._**


	7. Chapter 7 Pearls Before Sherlock

Sherlock looked glanced at a smiling John, then over to the blushing Mary and looked at the ceiling. "While I'm all for the further population of the country, that's enough of that. Yes Molly's told me your story up to a point. You live with your aunt, you mother died when you were four, and your father was an officer in the navy, now assumed dead having been missing more than ten years. Recently you have been receiving gifts in the mail, but not just any gifts, highly expensive, exotic gifts, one of which you have with you, as well as a letter you received two days ago that you suspect to be from your father."

"You're fantastic Mr. Holmes! How did you know all that? About the letter and that I brought one of the pearls with me?"

"Pearls?"

"John, don't interrupt. Nearly all of your clothing is of good quality or better, but your bag cheap, well worn, small, also of a rather alarming shade of army green, why would a well-off young woman who so obviously takes care in her appearance, judging from the color-coordination and various hues of blue, carry such a nondescript bag, obviously she is used to it and trusts it, thus whatever she is carrying must be of value. As for the letter from person or persons unknown, you have a paper cut on your right hand thumb, approximately two days healed, corresponding with an ink stain identical with the dye used on our dear mother England's stamps. Therefore the message Molly so non-descriptively mentioned must be a _letter_ arrived two days ago. Why else would you have a bulky piece of paper folded neatly in you skirt pocket."

"You're genius! Really truly brilliant! Molly was so right to mention you! I'm sure you can help me!" Mary beamed, sliding forward to the edge of her seat.

"Thank you." Sherlock grinned, bemused.

"Molly? _She_ mentioned Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes," Mary nodded her smile waning. "Molly has been having quite the tough time of it lately and I saw her looking really down one day and we just got to talking. Been friends ever since, she's such a darling, and I decided to confide my recent… issues… with her."

"She asked me first John, don't be alarmed. While not the soul of discretion Molly Hooper is the heart of loyalty. The complete picture would be nice now, Miss Morstan." Sherlock intoned, fingers drumming the chair arms, oozing impatience.

"Please call me Mary." She smiled sadly, inhaling. "Well, Im living with my aunt, Mrs. Forrester, now but when I was young I lived at school in Edinburgh 'til I was eighteen, when I began studying for my degree. My mum was never in the picture I'm afraid and Dad, a military man through and through, was almost constantly away, stationed all over the place."

John nodded, thinking of his own father. He gave Mary an encouraging smile, her sunny demeanor was ebbing away.

"Then fifteen years ago this year, my father called saying he had gotten leave to come and see me for my graduation. Well the night I was supposed to meet him at his hotel, I was told that he had been out since the night before. I waited the customary time, and then reported him missing." She paused.

"Did you contact anyone he knew, friends who lived in London, fellow servicemen?" Sherlock leaned forward in his seat.

"Of course, at the time he made it seem like a very big deal, strange because I know now I was the only person he told about coming here. He had a few friends in the area who I contacted after the fact, but none of them had heard from him in years."

"This was fifteen years ago though, what made you ask for Sherlock's help?" John asked, voice gentle.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Time is of little relevance in such cases, John, but it was the letter you received that made you confide in Molly, wasn't it Mary"

"Yeah, it was. Here," She reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out an elaborately decorated envelope. "This came two days ago, like I said, but the pearls started coming the year I moved to London, several years after my father… went missing."

Sherlock inspected the envelope, turning it, holding it up to the light, smelling it.

"There was an advert in the paper, asking for my address, saying I would receive something I needed if I answered, well, I…. foolishly responded."

"You thought it was your Father." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Yes. Each year, from that year to last year, I got a privately delivered package, and inside was always one of these." Mary reached into her bag and pulled out a small jewelry box. She opened it and handed it to Sherlock. Inside sat a perfectly round, champagne colored pearl, the size of a hazelnut.

"Blimey." John stared.

"Quite." Sherlock held it up between his fingers.

"The handwriting on the note sent with the first pearl matches the handwriting of the letter, though it may be forged. Im sorry I don't have the note, the police do, but Molly mentioned you work with them sometimes, maybe you could get it from them?"

Sherlock snorted, handing John the letter, which he had been craning his neck to read. It read:

Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum theatre,

on this coming Friday, seven o'clock, PM.

If you are distrustful, as I suppose you should be,

bring a friend. Two at the most.

You are a wronged woman and shall have justice.

Do not bring the police. If you do, all will be in vain.

Your unknown friend.

"You want us to come with you, then, to meet this "friend." John queried, glancing to Mary.

"Yeah, I couldn't go to the police, and I do really want to know what happened to my father all those years ago. If this is not him, I think they might know something at least." Mary nodded quickly.

Sherlock sat with his hands characteristically steeple-d. "People don't often send letters anymore. Why not send an email or text, or find you online? This person is older, very traditional and, I'll guess rather eccentric and wealthy going by the stationary, very expensive, far-east-based brand of paper. I can smell cannabis on it as well." Sherlock rolled his eyes at Johns look. "Do you have a sample of your father's handwriting?"

"No, I'm sorry to say. _He_ would email me, or call me when he wanted to talk."

"Ah, can't tell by comparison if it's his or not then. Too bad, I love a good handwriting study, I've even wrote a few minor entries about it on my blog. Interesting." Sherlock drew out his last word, ticking his fingers together, and thinking.

"Yeah, downright fascinating." John rolled his eyes back at Sherlock. "Well, no matter what Sherlock decides I'd be happy to come with you… if you want me. To go with you, I mean.

Mary smiled. "Of course, but will you come too Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, it sounds promising and Ive promised Molly I'd help you."

"Great! So, I should meet you two here then? That night, say, six thirty?" Mary beamed.

Sherlock just stared into the carpet.

"Yes, we'll be there for sure." John nodded, speaking for Sherlock as usual.

"Is there anything else you want to know Mr. Holmes?" Mary asked.

Sherlock glanced up, staring questioningly at her for a moment. "AH, yes, no that's all I need for now, Goodbye, John will show you out." He said bouncing up from the chair and striding down the hall into his bedroom.

John and Mary stared after him for a second, and then Mary stood.

"Well I guess I'll go then." She gathered her things. "Keep the letter, he might need it right?"

"I honestly couldn't say. Best to be safe and keep it though, or I would be the one to go fetch it from you." John chuckled showing Mary to the door.

"But, that wouldn't be so bad would it Doctor?" Mary spoke with her back to John, as they descended the stairs. John grinned.

"No that'd be great actually. Yeah."

When they had reached the front door Mary turned. "Goodbye, see you soon I guess!"

"Yeah, good. Hey listen, I um… with what Sherlock said, I um, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and ask if you'd like to grab a coffee sometime? Or lunch or…?" John winced, remembering her slight look of shock at what Sherlock had intimated about the two of them.

"So you and he aren't…?" Mary suppressed a smile.

"No, oh GOD.. no."

She laughed and it sounded like church bells. "I'd really like that John. If we don't get kidnapped on our coming adventure, I'll be excited to… have a coffee or something." Mary blushed.

"Great! Good. Hm." John smiled and watched Mary as she left and called a cab, her hips swaying in her black pencil skirt. This case sounded interesting, but he really couldn't wait for it to be over.

* * *

"Sherlock, what Mary said, about talking to the police…?" John called out from the living room later that evening as he sat eating dinner.

Sherlock sat at his microscope, preparing a slide with some chemical solution. "Yes?"

"Well, are you going to tell them your back? Lestrade will want to see you probably, and, well, you did sort of take me hostage after I punched that bugger in the nose, remember? Won't we have to answer for that?"

"John, of all the things my brother is good at, making problems with the law disappear is one of his more useful skills. Plus it annoys him, that's always fun." Sherlock spoke gazing into the microscope, the light from it illuminating his eye sockets, turning his eyes an eerie blue.

"So… yeah we're gonna have to talk to the police or…"

"Yes I think we will have to make nice with Scotland Yard at some point. Mycroft has to get back to me about it… it's all just stupid."

"Hhm." John turned back to his bowl of pasta. "What about the papers? They're going to want to know how you did it and such." He paused, remembering something Sherlock had said in the cab that morning. "Molly Hooper. She… must have helped a lot. The only one that could huh? Or would. So… she'll be in a world of trouble if her bosses ever found out."

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope to stare at the wall opposite him. "They won't find out. I won't risk her career because the papers want to know particulars. Let them guess, that's all they do about anything anyway." He looked back to his slides.

"You…stayed at her's."

"Yes, I told you."

"What was that like, then?" John raised an eyebrow as the detective in the kitchen glanced to the side without moving his head. John wondered if he knew he noticed.

"Fine. It was fine. Boring."

John nodded. And that was all he would get out of him, the git. Well, at least he could still grill Molly on the subject. She would love to talk about it.

* * *

**susieqsis: I know! I realized some folks might wonder where the Sherlolly is at! Its gonna be a bit light at first, like it is in the show, but when Enola makes a more permanent appearance, things will start to pick up! I'm so slow I know ;(**

**Thanks to rockingtheredhead for all her/his feedback! Much luv!**

**Reviews Reviews Reviews**


	8. Chapter 8 Sha-lok's Sister and Chavs

**_Flashback_**

* * *

"ENOLA! Where are you, you little imp?" A very flustered woman, hair greying, eyes tired, bustled about the pink and grey nursery room, lifting a table cloth to peer underneath and opening a toy chest that had been unceremoniously emptied of its contents, glancing around with frustration.

An elfin giggle came tinkling from the closet, its door just barely ajar. The woman, clad in a blue and white house dress, smiled wearily and tried her best to tip toe quietly towards the sound. Before she could peek around the door, it flew open, banging against her foot and shoulder. A small child of five ran through, skipping across the carpet and out the nursery door.

"ENOLA! NO! Your mother is in a meeting-" the Nanny shouted. The faint response echoed down the elegant hall of the Holmes mansion, "I'm not Nola! Im Emilia Air-heart! Dame of the round table! And I'm on a mission from the Queen!"

Nanny rushed into the hall to see the little girl running in circles down the corridor, arms outstretched like wings. Her unruly dark hair bounced with each movement, a pair of butterfly barrettes holding on for dear life near the back of her head. She made a sharp turn at the end of the hall, her bare feet making soft thumping noises on the floor.

"Oh please don't let her burst in on Mrs. Holmes." The nanny prayed to herself, losing sight of Enola down the next hall.

But that is exactly what happened. Enola grabbed the knob with both hands and turned it, pushing with her whole body on the door. Stumbling into the lush study she froze for a fraction of a second taking in the inhabitants of the room.

Her mother sat behind a desk, hand to her forehead, wearing her glasses. Enola knew that when her Mum wore those glasses, it was best not to talk to her. So she headed towards the occupant of the sofa, sat opposite to the desk, just behind an armchair, _its_ user hidden from view.

"My-coff…" she whispered to the young man, climbing onto the sofa next to him. "What's Mummy doing?"

Mycroft looked at the little girl with passing interest. "Sherlock has gotten himself expelled. Again."

"What does that mean?" she stared, eyes big and blue.

"It means he is in a lot of trouble, and from the looks of things, Mummy's not going to deal lightly this time."

Enola didn't really understand but didn't get to ask her next question of 'why' as the elegant middle aged brunette behind the desk finally spoke.

"Sherlock, this is the fourth time you have been asked to leave a good school. It says here, and I'll take it word for word, 'Constantly corrects teachers on all manner of inane trivia, as well as intimating explicit relationships between teachers and students, causing embarrassment and frustration among our staff. Sherlock has been involved in or has been found to be the direct antagonist in multiple fights on school grounds, as well as having been found in possession of school property, also being recently found in possession of narcotics, which this institution has refrained from reporting to the authorities on behalf of Mrs. Holmes…' blah blah blah. You get the gist of it I presume? Tuition wasted!"

There was no response from the resident of the armchair.

Tired of big words and scary gestures, Enola slid off the loveseat and padded over to the armchair, peering around the back of it to look at Sherlock. He sat, eyes blazing at their mother, hands balled into fist and shoved under his arms. He looked mad, thought Enola; her brothers were very frightening when they were mad. But she stayed watching him, not even noticed by her Mum or the skinny, pale youth.

"What should we do with you, Sherlock? You're a smart boy; why not _use_ your massive intellect? Be practical! How do you ever expect to become anything the way you're behaving?"

"They were wrong." He spat, "All of them! Morons, idiots! Mr. Smithson and Jane Lanham _are _having an affair, and those bastards always have it coming, I never was the antagonist! This is just ridiculous, I only _borrowed_ those things from the lab, it's not like anyone else uses them properly anyhow!" Sherlock bounced his legs up and down in an attempt to expel energy and anger.

"Language! Really, Sherlock at your age… Look at Mycroft, he's the-" her sentence was cut off by movement at Sherlock's elbow. A pair of grubby little hands gripped onto the arm of the chair. Before Mrs. Holmes could reprimand her daughter Sherlock had jumped to his feet and started yelling.

In Enola's eyes none of it made sense, Mycroft's pained expression as he stood to mediate, Sherlock's ears turning a flaming red, words flying about the high ceilinged room, jabs that she had never heard before. She quickly ran out into the hallway and hid behind the door to Sherlock's room, four doors down the hall.

The shouting went on for a few minutes before she saw her mum through the crack, walk down the hall in the other direction, and after a second, Mycroft and Sherlock emerged too.

"God-damned school, who do they think they are? Who does _she_ think _she_ is? I'm of legal age; I don't have to take this shit." Sherlock hissed hands still in fists at his side.

"Oh please, if you don't want to deal with this, don't get expelled. You had been doing so well too, shame." Mycroft rolled his eyes and leaned back on his heels.

Sherlock growled an insult that was too low for Enola to hear from her hiding place and strode straight towards her, slamming the door shut and revealing her to Mycroft. But he didn't notice, merely chuckled to himself as he walked the same direction their mother had moments before.

The little girl stood in the hall pondering. "Why is Sherlock always sad or angry or bored and Mycroft always…" Enola couldn't think of word to describe the state of her eldest brother. Then she got an idea. Turning around, she tapped three times then entered, using her whole body again against the massive door.

"Sha-lok?" she called. She saw his feet hanging over the end of the bed, and tried twice to vault herself onto the four-poster. Eventually she managed and found Sherlock with the heels of his hands pressed savagely against his eye sockets.

"Sha-lok, are you ok? Mummy and My-coff were yelling at you." She sat Indian style next to him, trying to peek under his hands.

"Gooooooooooood." He moaned. "Don't you detest this place?"

Enola didn't answer, she liked home. It was home, but obviously Sherlock liked where he was all the time, not home, better.

"I know a way to make you happy again, sha-lok, nanny taught me and it always works on me most of the time." she was suddenly shy talking to her brother, when he removed his hands to look at her.

"what." He barked.

She took his left hand in both of hers put it in her lap. She gulped. "Okay, here…" Enola began swirling her finger around Sherlock's palm, then walked her fingers up his fore arm while she sang; "Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, one step, two steps…tickle you under there!" with her last word she reached up to tickle him under his arm.

He raised his eyebrows, snorting at the ridiculousness of his baby sister; he barely felt it through his shirt.

"Im twenty one Enola, tickling doesn't make me happy." He groaned. But seeing her hands drop away he felt somewhat guilty, and sat up. "I'm bored. You can come with me to the green house if you want; I have an experiment set up that needs attention. Bugs, Enola, what do you think." He widened his eyes to emphasize the creepy-crawlies.

She smiled hugely nodding and bounced off the bed. "But I don't like worms Sha-lok, no worms please?"

"No, Enola… beetles." He grinned as he stood and strode out the door.

"Ok!" She squeaked, curious, and ran after him.

* * *

**_ Fourteen years later, March, Wednesday._**

* * *

"Look mate, I didn't take ya fooking purse! Sod off before I decide to rough you up _well_ good!"

"I know you took 'em and I'll not stop until I 'ave it me 'hands again!"

"Your full of it princess!"

Enola sat in the courtyard of the hostel she was staying at, sifting through a paper for anything interesting. She kept telling herself she didn't care if her brother's name popped up, but she knew she was looking for it. She had been only half listening to an argument between two girls, a few feet away from the bench she sat on. When the dispute became heated she craned her neck around to watch.

The first girl, tall, curvy, with massive gold hoops in her ears, stood shouting abuse down at a smaller girl with tattoos up her neck and neon green trainers. Enola smirked, one of the girls shared a room with her and wasn't a bad sort really, at least she wasn't the type to steal. Maybe.

She stuffed her paper roughly into the pocket of her coat, half still sticking out, and strode over to where the two birds stood bickering.

"Hey… Hey! Ladies. I hear your looking for a purse, perhaps I can help. I'm very good at finding things." Enola smiled jauntily, trying to win them over by being bold.

"Oi, you's in my room ain't ya?" said the tattooed girl.

"Yes I am. I'm Enola. HI!" she raised her eyebrow for emphasis.

"Nola? Weird name, tanks, but no tanks, we can 'andle our own problems." Hoop's girl sneered.

"Alright, If you're sure…"

"What makes you fink you can find it?" said tattoo girl.

"Well, if I can tell in which order you got your tattoos, what you ate for lunch and whether or not you've got a boyfriend, will you trust me to find it for you?" Enola grinned; she loved this part, when they were ready to laugh at her, ready to scoff. She liked to predict the looks they would have on their faces when she read them like a book.

"Yeah, Alright," tattoo's said, "Give it a go then Nellie."

Enola chuckled. "The bird behind your ear, two years ago, the three sixes on your collar bone, about the time you got that top piercing in your ear, roses one two and three over the last six months and the dragon hidden under your hoodie, lovely by the way, not finished yet, done last week. You had Ramen for lunch, and a coke, and you don't have a boyfriend."

The smaller girls mouth had snapped shut, staring.

"But you do have a girlfriend; she is in our room too." Enola finished smirking.

"Blodey 'ell. How't ya know all tat?" Hoops said laughing.

"I've sort of studied tattoos and different kinds of body art, before I decided it wasn't for me."

"Wot 'bout me lunch and Kelly?"

"The vending machine in the eating area only has Ramen and power bars, and the microwave there is defective, burns everything, your right hand fingers are burnt. I've seen you with the girl in our room, you fight like a married couple but aren't related, and… you should try and keep the making-out quieter at night."

"Do ya tink ta could 'elp me look for ma bag? It was expensive!"

* * *

Enola soon had it sorted. The girls purse had been nicked for a while by her boyfriend, and he returned it and they all went out for a pint. As Enola sat at the bar watching the crowd of teenagers and young adults gyrate to techno music, she couldn't help but think of how much she didn't miss home. Or her Mum. She definitely didn't miss her Mum.

Stupid jerk of a woman. What was she thinking shacking up with a guy half her age, running off to the south of France and then deciding not to come back? How irresponsible. Enola hadn't even been to University yet, but did her Mum care? No, Jake and a good tan were more important to her.

"Eeerrrrgh." She growled, ordering another beer. They never let her drink beer at home, or school. Technically she wasn't old enough and technically she had abandoned her mother first and technically she hadn't seen her brothers in four years because she had been at boarding school, but she was tired of technicality. And school uniforms and girls with names like Madison, Cameron and Andrea, girls who made fun of her name, her grades, her hair and everything else about her. Her only friends at school had been a year below her, who she had tutored and protected from bullying.

She was tired of being lonely and bored and having to do everything for herself. That's why when she found out Sherlock had "died" she had told her mum to stuff it, and came to London. All that birthday money was finally coming in handy.

Enola smiled into her second drink. Her skill of making fake ID's came in pretty handy too.

* * *

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	9. Chapter 9 Turn Around Bright Eyes

**Flashback to Sherlock's time at Molly's**

* * *

Molly closed her bedroom door softly. She tiptoed over to her tiny double bed and curled into a ball, kicking her shoes off in the process. She lay there, numb, thinking.

A week. It had been one week since Sherlock Holmes fully invaded every aspect of her life. Before, when she only thought about him half of her waking hours, it had been bearable. Now he was in everything. Her living room, her kitchen, her bathroom, her bedroom (not the way she wished), her mobile, her computer, her dreams at night, her thoughts all day, everywhere. She was worrying about him constantly. Would she come home to find him shot, bleeding out on the floor, or would he burn down her apartment building?

Those first few days had been absolutely nerve wracking, for _both_ of them she assumed. Would Moriarty's international web of crime kill John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson anyway? If Sherlock was really dead, surely they wouldn't care if three more were slain also? With Jim, no, Moriarty, having shot himself, would they retaliate for revenge?

Molly also couldn't bear the man that now lay on her couch. The way he had looked those first few days… she just wanted to wrap him in her arms and tell him everything would be all right, that she would do anything to wipe that look of hopelessness and desertion off his beautiful face. He should never look that way, she thought. He should always have excitement in those emerald blue eyes and that signature half-grin on his face. When she had looked at him tonight, just sitting there…devoid of that contagious energy that drove him around the lab like a little kid on a treasure hunt, Molly's heart hurt.

Sherlock usually went out for a time each day. One night he hadn't come back and nearly gave Molly a nervous breakdown. He hadn't left the flat today, having spent the day, apparently, set up a make-shift laboratory, twisting its way across the length of Molly's counter and coming to a stop on her kitchen table.

"Sherlock… what, what is all over my kitchen?" She had squeaked, smelling a number of familiar chemical odors, none that put her mind to ease in the least.

"What? Oh! Yes, this is my new work area. It was very important I was able to analyze a sample of DNA from a crime scene I acquired yesterday and since my regular lab is out of the question…voila! Molly Hooper's home-lab." Sherlock had almost grinned as Molly cracked a tired smile. It was the kind of thing that the both of them got excited about and truth-be-told, under normal circumstances, a "house lab" could have been on Molly's Christmas list.

So it must have been the stress of the week, it was Friday night after all, that made her snap at Sherlock. The conversation started out calmly enough, until Molly mentioned that Lestrade had been into the morgue that afternoon, prompting Sherlock to make some rude comment that Molly couldn't even remember now. Sherlock then began grumbling about being cooped up, about having to wait until he could start working again. Molly listened as she maneuvered her way through the "lab" to get something for dinner.

"…I don't _have_ to stay here, you know-"

Molly didn't really know why it annoyed her, but afterwards she thought it must have scared her, thinking about not knowing where he was.

"Well why are you here then!" Molly whirled on the man.

Sherlock, who was standing in the door way now, raised his eyebrows.

"I mean, you think you're doing _me_ a favor? What…what is the problem!?"

Sherlock didn't move.

What was wrong with her, she thought. "Sherlock… Im sorry-" She started but was cut off when he growled.

"I guess I just… I needed… forget it!"

Now, Sherlock was a great actor, and had a winning poker face, but when he wasn't employing either talent, his face spoke volumes for Molly to read. She watched him, going from self-assured to confused and then catching himself and barking at her gruffly. He walked into the living room a moment later, commandeering her laptop again.

Molly followed at a short distance and watched him for a second before deciding to speak her mind.

"No, Sherlock…" She sat down on the couch opposite him. "I think, maybe I understand- _do_… _have_ understood." She watched him for signs that he was even listening. "You're here because, you trust me. I mean, not just because I don't believe Jim, sorry, Rich Brooke was real. If I had been in your place, I guess, I would have wanted to be sure I could find someone I could trust to accept me. Not just as honest, but as a person, too. After all that… I'd want to be around someone who wanted me around, someone like _me_, I mean because I like you, not just… I don't know, bear you. I guess."

This was something Molly had thought about days ago, when she had found herself wondering why Sherlock was still with her at all.

His face held the same expression as that time she had said he looked like her father; confused… or shocked? Molly didn't know.

"I don't really… think in those terms Molly." He said, studying her face.

"I know, nobody does really, it's more… I dunno, abstract? Huh." Molly gave a half-chuckle, a little shy now that she had said all that.

"You… aren't like John. In that he doesn't _tolerate_ all my… habits. Thank you for that." Sherlock looked strangely at a loss, like he was only saying thank you because it would be polite.

"You're welcome. Okay, Well, I've got to, um head to bed." She stood, and was halfway to the door when he spoke again.

"Sentiment…feelings are the human bodies reactions to chemical levels in brain. Neurotransmitters such as Dopamine, Endorphins, Serotonin and others…"

"I know." Molly smiled; she had to measure the levels of those chemicals in a brain now and then.

"I've always known how to _show_ them. For cases, to motivate people, but I've never been good at deducing my own. You're very good at that." Sherlock looked Molly in the eyes, unnerving her. She used to think he was a bit like a cobra, hypnotizing its prey when he did that, but he didn't want to finagle body parts from her now. Now his eyes look vulnerable, which still unnerved her. He always looked strong, even when it was a mask, or put-on. Molly was reminded of that night in the darkened lab, it was the same look behind his eyes, and a different kind of pleading that had scared her then. It confused her somewhat now.

"Um thanks."

He looked back to the computer and resumed typing.

"Goodnight Sherlock." Molly whispered.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper." He intoned, not looking up.

Curled under the covers later that night, the sleepy pathologist would fall asleep thinking of how he was the only human being on the planet that could make her name sound so… right.

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**Sorry this is such a short chapter! More Coming soon. **

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews! Ta everyone!**


	10. Chapter 10 Meeting before Mystery

**Well, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I'm so sorry, between studying for the SAT's and getting my laptop fixed I haven't been able to really get in the mood for writing. Well, here is the next chapter.**

**All characters belong to their respective creators, one of which I am not.**

* * *

Thursday

"Major Sholto." Sherlock grunted, his head perched upon his fingertips.

"Hm? What's that, Sherlock?" John stepped into the room as he adjusted his tie.

"Major Edgar Sholto, close friend of Captain Morstan, and the only one actually _in_ London at the time of the Captain's disappearance. The only man he would have contacted, who, as Miss Morstan has told us, denies having heard from him. Four years later Sholto is dead and a week after that Miss Morstan reads the advert in the paper and receives the first pearl."

"So this Sholto had something to do with Captain Morstan's disappearance?" John squinted.

"Or he knew about it. Why would the pearls start coming _after_ Sholto's death if he wasn't in some way a part of the "wrong" that the letter writer describes as having been done to Miss Morstan. What else than the fate of her father. Sholto's heir is guilty… he wishes to make amends." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, rolling the words of his tongue with distaste.

"But why write her now, not all those years ago, and pearl for compensation for her father? Who it's doubtful is alive. I mean, what justice is this guy going to give her if her father is dead?"

Sherlock grinned at his friend. "We'll find out tomorrow!"

"Good. Great. Then we have something to go on. Hey, how'd you find out about Sholto anyway?" John lifted a brow.

Sherlock ignored him, instead making a face that usually meant he was done running theories through his mind and back to reality. "You're wearing a suit; you don't usually wear a suit…" Sherlock eyed John's navy blue jacket and trousers suspiciously.

"_No_, don't tell me you forgot…_god_, Sherlock! We have a meeting with your brother and the chief superintendent of police, then a press conference, I reminded you last night?" John groaned.

"Oh. Lovely."

"Come on, it's necessary. If we are going to be taking Mary's case, we'll need police cooperation, you said so yourself."

"Wrong, I said we will need what they _have_, not their cooperation." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sank farther into his chair, knees up to his chin.

John wondered how he even did that since his legs were so long, and he shook his head at the distinctly juvenile behavior of his friend. "Look, just get dressed or... don't get dressed, I guess _that_ doesn't really matter at this point, as long as you come with me. I can't do it on my own Sherlock… plus, you owe it to Lestrade and Molly to be there." John gestured to Sherlock's apparel, t-shirt and sleeping trousers, with unmasked annoyance.

"Oh for god sakes, I'll be ready in time, don't have a coronary." Sherlock jumped out of the chair, stepped on and over the coffee table, then strode down the hall with an air of indifference.

John snorted. When everything else in the world was unpredictable, one could always rely on Sherlock Holmes to resist putting on his clothes.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes hated the police department. He disliked the smell of coffee, ink and nervous sweat. He disliked the tired, mundane workers, and hated having to explain simple things to stupid people, but most of this was nothing new. It wasn't the first time he had had to smooth things over with the chief superintendent, but he dreaded it now. He felt he had to spell everything out using brightly colored diagrams and small words. He had been talking with the head of police for fifteen minutes now, cringing as the man's accent butchered the English language. His younger brother was late, and Mycroft wasn't going to wait much longer.

At least he was nearly finished with smoothing things over and all that was left to be done would be up to Sherlock, who chose that moment to come sweeping dramatically into the room, followed by an ash-haired doctor with a weary expression and a salt-and-peppered DI with tired eyes.

"Ah, Sherlock, I see you have decided to join us after all, I was worried." Mycroft drawled, standing.

"As always, brother." Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft nodded with narrowed eyes before strolling past the three men, two of whom looked more than mildly apprehensive.

It all went much better than John had expected, although he could only describe his own welcome from the Chief as "frosty". Sergeant Donovan had the good sense to keep quiet, seeing Lestrade shoot her a couple warning glares.

The reunion with Greg had been awkward for all three men as they had stood in the DI's office, one man shifting from foot to foot, the other two staring each other down. The look in Lestrade's eyes was conflicted. John imagined he was fighting the urge to punch Sherlock, much as he had, but the emotion that seemed to win out was relief, a very tender relief.

"Welcome back Sherlock." Lestrade said clasping the detectives hand and giving it a firm shake. "I…" he glanced around at John and the observers looking in through the office windows. He cleared his throat, "Glad you're not dead. Glad I… yeah."

Sherlock just nodded curtly before returning his hand to his glove.

"Good to see you John." Lestrade smiled, nodding.

"Pretty damn good circumstances huh?" John grinned back, referencing the last times he had seen Greg; filling out reports on his friend's suicide.

"The best" Lestrade nodded, and gestured to the door. Sherlock had led the trio out.

The press part of the morning's "circus", as Sherlock later put it, went as well as could be expected. With the occasional elbow in the side, John kept Sherlock from saying anything too rude or vengeful, and despite a somewhat snarky comment from Lestrade, the gathering of reporters and photographers seemed pleased, after all, "Famous Detective Fakes Own Death after Foiling Criminal Plot" is a smashing headline.

Friday

John stared into the bathroom mirror. Every few seconds he would comb his hair into a different direction. He wondered if his jumper was too heavy for the weather that night, or if he should dress up more, or down. He was nervous, and he had no reason to be. He was excited about a new case with Sherlock, the first excitement in a long time. Maybe it was the prospect of seeing Mary again that was making him question his fashion sense. Sure, he had been on dates since Sherlocks "death", but when he thought really hard about it, he couldn't remember any of the girls he'd been out with, not one single face. And Mary was different, he could tell. She made him feel like a University student again, eager and nervous. It was weird, he thought.

John hadn't seen Sherlock for an hour or two, but that didn't mean he was in the flat. He checked the time, 6:27.

"Sherlock, she'll be here in three minutes." John heard a grunt of acknowledgment from the bedroom, as the dectective came into view.

"She will be here in less than one, actually." Sherlock smirked, and downstairs the doorbell could be heard.

John met Mary at the door. "Shall we?" he motioned towards the street. When he heard Sherlock's step on the stairs, he hailed a cab and the three set off into the evening.

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**Geez, not too happy with this, but it's been sitting in my documents since before my laptop broke. **

**Hope it wasnt a total disaster. You would let me know, wouldnt you? **

**Oh review also if you ****_liked_**** it too! Thanks!**


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